Era could sense trouble. Sometimes it was from the chill of the air, or the heaviness of her bones.
This time, she knew when the corpse blinked.
She would have loved to brush it off as a mere trick of the eye, if it wasn't for all the rest of it.
The body was floating. Not being lifted, not suspended by wires.
Just… hovering above the altar, dead.
Blue-veined skin pulled tight over sharp bones. Arms outstretched as if he was being crucified. Fingers twitching slightly with each exhale, except he wasn't breathing. Not anymore.
And then there were the nuns.
Era's co-workers for the past three weeks, who'd she'd shared bunk-beds and bibles with. The sweet-faced grannies who fussed over her as if she was their grandchild. All twelve of them, standing in a perfect circle beneath the altar.
Dressed not in their usual uniforms, but in deep red ceremonial robes Era had never seen before. White embroidery traced unfamiliar symbols across the fabric like streaks of paint. They moved in near-perfect unison, each holding a flask, steady hands tilted toward the corpse, to catch the droplets of azure ooze sliding from its skin.
Slow. Rhythmic. Reverent.
Era still stood in the doorway, one foot on the step stone, one hand hovering over her knife beneath her robes out of habit.
She was long out of practise, but the chill of the metal against her skin slowed her thundering heart ever so slightly.
Her career had opened her eyes to the dark corners of the world, corners where money bought governments, people and even the truth, but this... This was beyond her comprehension.
Era had envisioned a retirement worthy of a spy-turned-penitent: sipping the Lord's blood at a serene Italian monastery, basking in the sun and reconciling her sins in peace.
Alas, after only a week, she'd been reassigned to the damp, bone-chilling English countryside.
Her days were now filled with prayer, sweeping and enduring Mother Superior's broadband tyranny, which allowed only an hour of internet access each evening. But, the nuns seemed sweet, and once morning duties were over, she was left much to her own devices.
She learnt to enjoy the quiet. The mundane became numbing and safe.
If she had just stuck to her routine, not stick her nose where it didn't belong, perhaps she would have never discovered this.
Era was stunned. Her mind was as still as a lake.
The door groaned shut behind her, like the closing of a coffin.
And every head snapped to look in unison. Their eyes too wide, and too still, like portraits hung in the hallway.
The dam over Era's mind broke and suddenly the urge to run bubbled within her like a tornado. She wanted nothing more than to escape far from this nightmare, and pay an expensive therapist to convince her this was all a manifestation of parental trauma.
The sharpened claws of fear seized her jugular. She was never meant to be here. This was supposed to be a holiday. This was…
'MOVE', her brain shrieked. They are a group of pensioners, surely she could out run them? But, why weren't they panicking?
The air buzzed, her muscles twitched. She stumbled back.
Behind her a voice cut through the tension, calm and cold-"Is this the one you mentioned, Mother Superior?"
A shadow drifted past her and joined the others, polished shoes clicked against the stone floor. Male. Not robed, but dressed in clerical black, his collar stained with something dark and glossy.
Vicar Peter.
His hands were clasped behind his back like a man giving a sermon, but his eyes glittered with something too filthy to be faith.
Mother Superior, stood at the head of the altar her body covered in shadow. Yet Era could feel the pressure of her gaze. Her voice rasped out—"Our intel said she's not H.V.N, but now she's seen it. There's no going back."
That was all she needed to hear. Instinct seized the wheel and Era primed to run.
"I'd rather you stay," the Vicar spoke, his low rumble settling within her soul like chains. Limbs seizing, muscles tensed, mind racing, Era jerked like an engine without fuel.
What the hell was happening? Why couldn't she run?
Era faltered again. Stuck.
Peter studied her like she was a specimen under glass. "You've disrupted the offering. But perhaps… you're an acceptable substitute."
She couldn't run, but could she move at all? Era's fingers twitched near the knife. Her hands were free from his spell.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She forced a steady breath, "Substitute for what?"
Peter smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Balance, child. We take, we give. That's the contract. And you, my dear, have interrupted the giving. We must compensate the Gods with an additional offering, don't you agree, Mother Superior?"
Her shadow stepped into the light. Era couldn't recognise the woman standing before her.
The image was grotesque.
Her face was gaunt, hollowed as if flesh had been scooped away with a ladle. The skin hung like wet parchment — ill-fitted and translucent, revealing a map of blue veins and sinew beneath. It didn't look worn. It looked inhabited. Like something had peeled off her face and pinned it, still twitching, over its own.
The eyes, once a warm coffee brown, were now sunken black pits in her skull. Her mouth was permanently parted, revealing a jagged, interlocking chaos of jagged teeth, while her tongue darted between her lips, sampling the air. Beneath her robes, something pulsed. The fabric shifted in unnatural waves, as if dozens of limbs were pressing outward, testing the seams.
"I do, Vicar," she said, her voice dragging across the air like talons on bone.
The corpse spasmed jaw unhinging with a slow creak. Then, its spine began to fold, slowly.
'Oh fuck no', Era's mind screamed.
The chanting immediately resumed, a low, guttural murmur of voices.
The sound pressed against her skull, oily and thick, like it was trying to crawl into her ears. Her throat tightened, as if hands were squeezing her windpipe. Her breath came out in a series of gurgles and babbles.
Era's wanted to scream, to pray, to escape. But instead, she thought of steel. Of training. Of survival. This was not how she died, not without giving something back.
In that moment, Mother Superior's head twisted, spinning sharply like an unwinding screw until all Era could see was the back of her skull. With a sound like cracking twine, the flesh of her neck tore and her head detached completely, lifting from her shoulders like a balloon on an invisible string. Her body remained standing. Her head hovered, twitching midair, and then it turned.
Era didn't think.
She moved. Her hand found the knife and launched it in a single, fluid motion.
But panic and a lack of practise threw off her aim.
The blade sailed clear past Mother Superior's flying skull and struck another target.
She had missed. Just her luck. But at least she'd caught someone.
The Vicar's eyes went wide. He staggered back, clutching at the hilt buried at the base of his neck, blood spurting between his fingers.
The compulsion snapped.
Era collapsed to her knees, sucking in air like a drowning woman.
The corpse on the altar burst into motion, flailing like a puppet on strings.
Era didn't bear it a second glance. The chains were broken, she was free to run.
The ground buckled. Candles blew out.
Mother Superior's head shrieked through the air toward her, teeth bared.
Era rolled. It missed by inches and slammed into the wall, embedding itself in stone with a sickening thunk.
'Now's my chance' Era realised, she leapt to her feet.
Just then, the heavens shook with a roaring boom. The altar cracked open like a fault line, and the ground split.
It wasn't sound. It was presence. Like a scream bellowed directly into her soul, not through ears, but through marrow.
Era's knees buckled. Her vision shattered into white.
The force hit her like a wave of jagged glass, ripping the breath from her lungs. It was too much, too loud, too close, too inside.
She let out a strangled gasp, then collapsed.
Her body hit the stone floor, limp.